


Steadfast

by Semira



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Castiel, Coda, Comforting Castiel, Crying, Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mark of Cain, Mark of Cain!Dean, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Sam Winchester, Panic Attacks, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Episode: s10e21 Dark Dynasty, Protective Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semira/pseuds/Semira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prayer starts out general (confessions, pleas for forgiveness) and then turns specific. Before he knows it, he's praying to Cas.</p>
<p>His phone rings.</p>
<p>A raw laugh breaks from his throat when he sees who's calling.</p>
<p>He answers without words, just lifting the phone to his ear.</p>
<p>“Sam?” Cas says. “I heard you.”</p>
<p> <br/><strong>In other words:</strong> After the events of 10x21 <em>Dark Dynasty</em>, Sam prays. Somehow, he finds himself praying to Cas, who comes, and makes a valiant attempt at disabusing Sam of the notion that the events of the evening are his fault. Cuddling and awkward attempts at comfort ensue. <strong>Needless to say, <span class="u">please</span> don't read this if you don't want spoilers for the events of the episode.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Steadfast

Dean's first real reaction—after a quick cycle of _denial-shock-denial-confusion-bargaining-denial_ —is rage, which is not terribly surprising, considering the patented Winchester Way of dealing with trauma. All they know how to do is hate. John was like that, too. The times he was saddest were also the times he was most angry.

The Mark just makes it worse.

Sam watches Dean's half-open mouth clamp shut, jaw muscles ticking as he grinds his teeth. He turns around and marches out of the doorway and into the destroyed motel room.

“Dean...” Sam starts. The word is hardly out of his mouth before the nausea from earlier assaults him. He can smell it—Charlie's blood, slick and sharp and greasy on the air. Sam swallows a retch as he stumbles forward. Charlie called them. She _called them_ because they're the Winchesters and they've stopped the apocalypse and their fucking _job description_ is saving people, but they couldn't make it in time for her. Charlie is just one of the many, many people who got touched by the Winchester curse. Sam stumbles on the floor, not sure if he's just that clumsy or if the ground is wet with her blood, and he presses two fingers to her carotid.

Nothing.

Her flesh is still life-warm, a testament to how close they were to not letting her down.

This close, he can see all the details: one hand dangling lifelessly at the end of her slender wrist, the bruises and slices on her hands and arms (defensive; she fought), the dark blood pooling out from a brutal stab wound in her abdomen.

A dry retch turns into a hiccoughing sob, and Sam fumbles backward on unresponsive feet when he's sure that Charlie is gone. Wavering, he's tempted to let himself fall onto the bed or into the chair, but instead he supports himself with a hand on the wall and looks down at the floor. “We can't...” He swallows. “...Can't leave her there. Dean...”

He's not even sure why he keeps saying his brother's name. Habit, he supposes. When they were little, Dean was always the one to make things better.

Dean turns on Sam, face set in stone. “Yeah,” he says. “Cops'll probably be coming soon. No way someone didn't call the police with all the racket this must have made. You get her. I'll bring the car around.”

Sam wets a few rags with warm water and slings them over his shoulder, then gingerly picks up Charlie. She's not awfully heavy, but the weight is enough to let him know she's dead.

Sam swallows and focuses on breathing until Dean comes with the car, and he slides into the back seat with Charlie in his lap. Dean says nothing.

Sam takes one of the warm cloths from around his shoulder and starts cleaning the visible blood from Charlie. He can't stomach leaving her like this—ruined, bloody, _victimized_.

He doesn't cry—no tears, not yet—but he can't breathe except in broken little gasps as the blood on her face comes clean. There's still enough color in her cheeks, her body free of rigor, that she really does look like she might just be sleeping.

“We could—she might—” Sam starts.

“What, Sam? Make another deal? Do a spell, call a friend? We don't have anyone in our court anymore, and Cas can't heal worth shit. He couldn't fix a few scrapes, he won't be able to fix this.”

Another minute. Her hands are clean of blood, and Sam can't help remembering the last time he cleaned a body. _Dean._ After Metatron killed Dean, Sam had cleaned him up before putting him in bed (the least he could do, after everything). This is too reminiscent of that, and the memories are choking.

Dean's voice tears Sam out of his building panic. “What I don't get, Sam, is why you thought it was a good idea to drag _Charlie_ into this mess. You lied to me, you didn't burn the book, those things I get—” but it doesn't sound like he does “I mean—those things, yeah. But you had to pull other people into your mess?”

“I was sure—I told her... she was with...” The words die. They don't matter, really. Sam called her in, and now she's dead. And maybe correlation doesn't always equal causation, but right now it really fucking looks like this one's on Sam.

Sam turns away from Dean's accusing eyes in the rearview mirror, and Dean grunts, “I thought so,” before stepping on the accelerator. They find a clearing, and Sam cleans and wraps her while Dean prepares the pyre. They salt her corpse. Charlie won't be coming back as a vengeful spirit (won't be coming back at all), and here are Sam and Dean, listening to the calls of fleeing birds and watching as the fire takes her.

When the fire flickers down to embers, they get in the car without words, and Sam says, “Dean—I—I'm sorry.” He might as well have it tattooed on himself somewhere. He's so fucking tired.

Dean just shakes his head. “I can't. I can't do this right now, Sam. I can't talk to you. I just...” Trailing off, Dean stares straight ahead, blaring his music.

When he stops at a convenience store for gas and some cleaning supplies and probably alcohol, Sam gets out and wanders.

He knows this will be another nail in his coffin, but Sam can't stand to be in the car right now, either. He can find his way home some other way. Another part of him knows it's stupid (they really are stronger together, from a strength-in-numbers standpoint) and that the people who killed Charlie may well come for him. After all, they don't know if Charlie was tortured before she died. It stands to reason that she might have been. Some of the wounds were deep but not fatal. Maybe the Stynes will see that Sam broke ranks and come to kill him.

Sam isn't afraid of death, though—hasn't been in a long time. Heaven doesn't seem so bad, and even Hell can't be quite as wretched as the Cage. Sam doesn't imagine they'll be able to spare the millennia of undivided attention Lucifer and Michael were able to devote to him. They're busy down there, he thinks; the demons in Hell are multi-taskers.

So no, he's not afraid of dying. He just needs to be away. Dean keeps looking to his right, thin-lipped as he grips the steering wheel hard enough to crush it, keeps staring at Sam like he's something that got crushed under Dean's nice boots, and Sam _knows_ he deserves it. He just can't take it right now.

It's either leave or vomit in Dean's car. Sam isn't sure which option would get more ire from Dean, but the former sounds more appealing for a number of reasons.

Walking down the highway with little else to do, Sam finds himself praying.

He never stopped, really. He understands that God wouldn't step in for them, but he still _believes_ , even if the parameters of his faith have changed a little. The prayer starts out general (confessions, pleas for forgiveness) and then turns specific. Before he knows it, he's praying to Cas.

His phone rings.

A raw laugh breaks from his throat when he sees who's calling.

He answers without words, just lifting the phone to his ear.

“Sam?” Cas says. “I heard you.”

Sam can't make the words come out.

“I'm sorry. I... I can try to come there... but I fear my grace will not allow me the luxuries it once did. I can tell where you are...”

“Angel GPS?”

“I suppose you could call it that. Celestial beings are all aware of the locations and identities of all of their supplicants.”

Sam manages a pale smile. “I... that's nice.”

“I will arrive as soon as I can, by whatever means are available.”

Sam keeps walking, and it ends up being around forty-five minutes before Castiel shows up behind him, a little breathless and frazzled. He makes no explanations—he just looks at Sam, head tilted to one side like Sam is a particularly interesting enigma. “I am... deeply sorry to know of Charlie's death.”

Sam jumps at Cas's words. _Death._ He doesn't do euphemisms, does he?

Sam shrugs, nods, lowers his eyes. “Yeah. Me—me too. We just—we couldn't get there in time. I'm sorry.” There's a drop-off just a few scant inches to his left, filled with rocks and rotting leaves and litter. Cas's shoes look startlingly clean and polished, as usual. “I'm so sorry, Cas.”

“It was I who allowed her out of my sight, if you must cast blame. She made it very clear she wanted to go. I could not stop her, and I could not find her.”

“Cas, this isn't on you. I... brought her into this mess. Dean was right. I dragged her into this and now she's gone. Jesus, Cas...”

His knees choose that moment to unlock, and he ends up clumsily on his knees by the side of the road, skidding down the incline to his left and landing in the pile of debris there. Torn aluminum cans and rocks stab at him through the denim of his pants and dig into his palms when he tries to catch himself. The edge of a narrow, rusted pipe takes a bite out of his right hand on the way down. The pain is a welcome distraction.

Cas gingerly comes down, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Sam,” he says, and when Sam doesn't respond, “Samuel Winchester, look at me.”

Castiel takes one of Sam's hands and frowns at the trickles of blood that are starting to spill out. Cas helps Sam back up to the barely-there shoulder of the narrow two-lane road, and sits when Sam doesn't try standing.

“Sam,” Cas says. 

He knows he should answer. He looks up, mouth opening, and meets Cas's eyes. A mistake. There's so much pain there, and Sam caused it.

“I messed up, Cas. I just wanted to help Dean, and now Charlie... I ruin things, Cas. I ruin all the things I touch.”

Cas blinks. “I think that's a little hyperbolic.”

Sam chokes out a laugh. Stupidly, hilariously, it's Cas's shit method of offering comfort that finally brings the tears, because he can tell Cas is _trying_ , and Sam wants it even if he knows he doesn't deserve it.

Cas withdraws, brows knitting as he hears Sam's first, hitched sob, and leans down to lift Sam's chin. He looks absolutely devastated when he sees Sam's tears. “Was it something I said? I didn't mean to be—”

Sam shakes his head. “No,” he manages. “It's just... I'm a mess right now. I'm glad you're here.”

Cas smiles a little bit at that. “I'm glad you're glad I'm here.”

Sam can't really remember the last time someone really tried to comfort him like this—this unselfish, patient care. He likes it, though. Cas is stiff and awkward when he puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam basks in the feeling of warm flesh over his shirt. His body shakes with it, and he leans into Cas's hand, like it can ground him, guide him. He never realizes how much he needs contact like this until he gets it after so long without. 

He's not built to play the role he's been playing; he hates all these lies; he keeps trying to _lead_ , but the weight of it is crushing, the cruel inevitability of the Mark taunting him. He's tired. He's tired of fighting these unwinnable battles against time and fate and the oldest curse in the world. He's trying so damn hard to have hope and to give it to Dean, too, but Dean's already giving up, and Sam can't keep them both afloat—his attempts are just gonna make them drown together.

Cas's touch quiets these thoughts, and all he feels is the warmth and the weight of it. The hand rises, warm fingers threading into Sam's hair and drawing Sam's forehead up against Cas's solid shoulder.

Sam's hitching breaths taper off, and he goes slack on the side of the road. Cas lifts Sam's chin again and offers a smile.

“Sam.”

“Hmm?”

“Your hands are bleeding rather profusely. I'm not a doctor, but I believe there is a condition called lockjaw which is dangerous for humans.”

Sam has to blink through the haze of his thoughts until Cas's words register. “Tetanus? Nah, I'll be fine. Just... need to clean it and stuff.”

Cas takes Sam's right hand—the one the rusted pipe got to, and holds it for a moment. Sam senses a warmth, a strange tingling there, and when he looks down, he sees a faint but fading glow. His wounds are still there, not at all lessened, but Cas looks pleased enough with himself. He takes Sam's other hand, running the pads of his fingers over Sam's knuckles in a steady, comforting gesture before he flips Sam's hand over to assess the damage. His fingers continue to trace Sam's knuckles as he repeats the process again: warmth, tingling, faint light.

“What...?”

“I eradicated any dangerous bacteria in the wounds. I haven't the power to close them, but I can manage something as simple as cleaning—” Cas frowns. “Please, Sam, do not invalidate my hard work by putting them in your pockets.”

Sam realizes only when Cas speaks that he was halfway to doing exactly that.

He lets them fall, palms up, on his knees.

“Can you stand?”

Sam does. His knees twinge, but there are only a few small cuts there—nothing to worry about. Cas stands too, facing Sam and staring up at him with those unnervingly calm blue eyes.

“I fear that you and your brother are impossibly convinced of your responsibility for the safety of the whole world, Sam Winchester, and I am not arrogant enough to believe that I can disabuse you of that notion, but I would have you know that there are people—and beings—in the world that are concerned for you.”

“Cas... how can it not be on me? I'm the one who—”

“Would you hold your brother responsible for the apocalypse, Sam?”

Sam nearly falls again at the suddenness of the question. “What?” he splutters. “God, Cas, _no._ Why would I? I mean—”

“Your brother broke the first seal in Hell, Sam.”

Sam purses his lips. “He didn't... he didn't know. He was under a lot of duress. He couldn't have—”

“And yet the breaking of the first seal was absolutely necessary in order for the events that followed.”

Sam shakes his head. “I can't even believe you'd—”

“Did you know Charlie was going to die?”

“N—no, but I—”

“Shh. You didn't. Sam, you sell free will and redemption to everyone you meet, and yet you would usurp responsibility for actions that aren't your own. Is that not a little selfish?”

Sam swallows and shakes his head, but he can't force words past his throat.

Cas waits. It feels like minutes pass before Sam can push the ragged words out.

“I just... Cas, so much rests on the things we do, and we do—we have... _responsibility_ to do what's right, and I just—”

“You do your best to do so. I know this, Sam. You were not aware of what would happen to Charlie. She ultimately made the choice that made her vulnerable to attack. It was an unwise choice. Surely she must have known that she was in danger. Is it Charlie's fault that she was murdered? Is this on Charlie?”

That's _enough_. Sam's whole body shakes almost convulsively with belated shock and anger and nausea, and Cas just reaches out and pulls Sam close. “Is it?” he repeats, raw and brutal. “Isn't it Charlie's fault? Charlie left. She was safe with me. She left and put herself in danger, and then she got killed.”

Sam can't _breathe_. He tries to push away from Cas, not even feeling the pain in his bleeding hands, but the angel is holding on so tight, and it's all Sam can do to draw a wheezing thread of air into his lungs. “How—how dare you?” he cries, digging his fingernails into Castiel's chest. “She—it's that bastard who killed her—carved her— _fuck_ —carved her up. She didn't know he was—he would—” He speaks in the space he can find between gasps, but it doesn't take long for black and silver starbursts to wash over his vision, closing in around the corners of his eyes until everything goes black and he wilts against Cas, all his strength leaving him.

Castiel's iron grip loosens, and he guides Sam's increasingly heavy form to the ground. “Yes,” he whispers. “Charlie associates with you, and there is danger in that. Charlie made a foolish choice... and there was danger in that. But her death—and the responsibility for it—lies only on the shoulders of the one who killed her, Sam. You can feel sadness, but don't feel responsible. That cheapens the value of the free will you fought so hard for.”

Cas swipes Sam's hair out of his eyes and holds onto his shoulder with one hand, peering at Sam's face.

“You seem quite close to losing consciousness; It might be beneficial if you were to slow your breathing.”

Sam coughs out a weak laugh. On his knees (again), he tries to take in oxygen past the merciless clench of panic around his chest. “T—trying,” he mutters.

“Good. Keep trying,” Cas says.

And since Cas doesn't seem to mind, Sam leans against the angel, and learns how to breathe again.

**Author's Note:**

> This episode. This _episode._ Just... ugh. Any thoughts at all on this story would be greatly appreciated. Also, I have a brand-spankin'-new [Tumblr](http://semirahrose.tumblr.com/) where I welcome any thoughts, rage, prompts, etc. from fellow fans of the series.


End file.
